


Use Me

by Megane



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Double Knockout, Enemy Swarm, Last Chance, Last Resort, M/M, Power Sharing, Prompt Fill, Survival, Teamwork, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29762997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megane/pseuds/Megane
Summary: Fenris is exactly the type to cut off his nose to spite his face. His hatred of magic, rational or not, gets him into trouble.





	Use Me

**Author's Note:**

> Fulfilled another [Dragon Age prompt](https://dragonage-kink.livejournal.com/11381.html?thread=45154933#t45154933) just to get myself back into this groove I'm feeling. I feel like my writing style has changed a bit.

What remained of his powers was tingly and exhaustive. He was at the end of his mana, and even if he took a potion, his body would feel that powerful strain from the booster. His mouth was dry, tongue continuously sticking to the roof of his mouth. Surely, he _was_ running out of power, and it was taking a toll on his body.

Fenris spun in a circle, massive sword gripped tightly in his right hand. He stabbed the weapon into the ground, left arm swinging limply in front of him. It was either dislocated or broken. Either way, the pain in his arm mingled with the exhaustion he could feel deep down into his bones and the driving force of his lyrium. The enemies repelled away from his weapon and landed a way's away, lurching and heaving on the ground with a sick, wet, guttural noise.

The elf stood, frowning deeply and jaw clenching tighter, ignoring the searing pain that was now surging down his left arm. The limp appendage slumped at his side. He could almost hear the unnerving pop of bones. He looked around at his companions. Isabela was slumped against a wall —for how long, he wasn’t sure, but at the very worst, she was unconscious. Fenris _hoped_ that she was unconscious. He watched as Anders hurried over to her, and for some reason, the elf felt relief.

Now that only left one _other_ mage. Where was he…?

There was a pitiful crackle of power as Hawke aimed the fire downward. His fingers curled in the column of heat. He jerked his hand away; his left palm was red—welts were forming on the inside joints of his fingers. It would be impossible to hold something later, even the bottle of a restorative potion. Fenris swayed back and forth, wading in uncertainty before he slugged his sword onto his shoulder. He winced at the strain but swung the sword down, cleaving the enemies standing between him and Hawke.

“Mage,” the elf asserted, once again dropping his sword down with a heavy clank. Behind him, he could hear Isabela’s groggy voice. “How’re you faring?”

“No need to be so polite,” Hawke joked, fighting to remain still and upright as he spoke. “I’m just a friend.”

Fenris was still getting used to that idea, but he didn’t have time to think about it at the moment. Magic crackled behind him, and flasks clinked open as they burst against the ground. Good to hear those two were up and about again. Fenris stood straighter, flicking a paranoid glance over his shoulder. The enemies were currently preoccupied with Anders and Isabella, but the ones that twitched and lurched on the ground… Fenris was worried about _them_.

He grit his teeth as he told Hawke his situation. The mage stood taller, letting his staff rest in the crook of his arm. He ran his tongue over his teeth and slowly opened up his hands, showing the elf his palms. Fenris winced at the ugly welts that were blemishing the mage's flesh. The party was all stocked up on potions and salve, but it would all take time. And Fenris wasn’t sure how long they had. They worked quickly: an injury kit for Fenris, and a sick mix of mana and health potions for Hawke. Fenris' hands trembled as he poured the mixture. He was having a hard time regaining control of his body. The 'injury' must have been more serious than their quick fix could amend. The mage would regret the horrible taste that lingered on the back of his tongue later, if he lived.

If _any_ of them lived.

Anders and Isabela hit a wall suddenly, startling both Hawke and Fenris. Isabela groaned out “Not again” as she fell to the ground and rolled onto her side. Anders’ staff clanked against the ground. Fenris spun back towards Hawke. Albeit, the movement was a little too sudden, and his now functional left arm was protesting wildly. He ignored the angry inflammation in his shoulder and stared at Hawke. Now was no time to be distant, he reasoned to himself.

“You’re not going to be at full strength yet,” Fenris asserted.

“No need to tell me,” the mage countered. His tone held humour, but his face was worried.

The elf held back the urge to snort at the ill-placed humour. He knew that… was just Hawke’s way, but still. “Use me as a source.”

“I’m sorry?” The smile was there but just barely. The shock went straight to the mage’s voice, and he distracted himself by keeping a look out for the enemy. They had company.

There was a soft _pop_ in Fenris’ ear, and his head canted towards it. He could sense something moving too quickly behind him and danced out of the way. An abnormally clawed hand smacked down onto the ground, fingers scraping at the ground. The claws dug long, shallow trenches as the arm jerkily drew back. Fenris snapped his head up towards Hawke, watching the mage shoot off ice towards the enemy. The arm chilled, fingers jerking and wiggling frantically. The elf was glad that the appendage couldn’t scream as he was sure it would be high-pitched and rabid. He gripped his sword with two hands, slowly rotating his body and slamming the blade onto the frantic hand.

But with that, more came. Isabela grunted in surprise as the hands and arms took on their own life. The gurgling unanimously faded when the heads slipped away from the rest of the bodies. The torsos, once spasming fervently, were now lifeless and being dragged about by homicidal appendages. The team of four spread out. They distracted and evaded. Magic flew in sparks and flurries. Blades were brandished and stopping enemies dead in their tracks.

Fenris was worried. He had tried to keep an almost ‘professional’ distance since he came back, but he had to end that façade before The Bone Pit became their gravesite.

Fenris’ entire body began to glow. Isabela paused in her assault, the sight too rare for her not to be taken a bit off guard. She resumed her activities quickly, spinning around and jutting back her daggers. Fenris all but appeared, very suddenly, next to Hawke. The mage gave the elf a few moments of attention, but his true focus was on his powers. He was wavering again. Perhaps he was too powerful—a remark he would have to present in a friendlier setting later. Right now, it spelled worlds of trouble for him. He was running through his mana too quickly. Perhaps he just wasn’t taking the Forces into account. Whatever the reason was, it was leaving him weak.

Hawke cracked his staff against the ground and jutted it up into the air. It was unresponsive. Hawke’s lips trembled. Not out of fear or confusion—but out of sheer burnout. His body couldn’t force itself to work on its own merit, and the magic had left his arms feeling heavy and dead. The feeling of something dark and sinister crept down to his veins. He shook a hand out; Fenris came between him and the enemies, letting out a fierce battle cry. The elf looked over his shoulder.

“I will no longer ask you nicely, Hawke. Use me or face peril.”

Hawke wanted to argue, so desperately to argue. “It’ll drain you,” was his only defense.

“Should I live, I’d be grateful with a nap.” Fenris turned his head away, jutting back his right arm for the mage to take. “But now I ask you to save yourself—save _all of us_. My lyrium will sustain us. At worst, it’ll be more strain, but I trust you can take it.”

“Just about.” There was no joke. Hawke hoped they both could take it.

The hesitation and doubt lingered in the back of his mind. He wondered what it would do to Fenris, if the elf would feel anything. As the lyrium began to glow that mystic blue-white again, the mage felt powerful. His spirit was lighter; the fatigue he had so continuously felt was alleviated. He decided act on it.

There was nothing for what he felt in fire or in ice but _lightning_. It would crack and spread danger wherever he went, so he pulled Fenris. The elf followed with little question, shouting at the other mage and rouge to move away. Isabela leapt back. Anders watched in confusion as Hawke’s fingers and left hand glowed from contact with lyrium. Once again, Hawke slammed his staff into the ground. This time, there was a response—an intoxicating one. The brunet leaned his head back, features melting into an eased neutrality. Fenris wanted to break away or at least swing his weapon and repel the enemies that slithered towards them.

But the urge dissipated when a light yellow glyph appeared beneath their feet. The light was almost blinding. He turned his head away suddenly, eyes closing as he did. He opened them again moments after, seeing Isabela and Anders protected by a circle of similar colour but different make. They protected their eyes from the glaring light. The symbol began to shrink under his feet, and that grabbed Fenris’ attention.

“Hawke,” Fenris spoke, voice firm and filled with warning. “Your symbol is shrinking.”

“It’s working…” came the airy, almost raspy voice.

The tone was concerning; perhaps Hawke was overwhelmed. This was a mistake.

“Hawke, are you—”

His question never finished at the mage’s shout. The sound reverberated within the mine walls. The rolling sound of thunder washed it out, and lightning hissed direfully in the enclosed space. All of the half-dead torsos were jolted, some trembling with the electric shock while others were immediately incinerated. The lightning was a stupefying bright yellow, which quickly faded to white and finally ended on a still dazzling shade of blue-white. The ending effects of the lyrium, the conscious three assumed. Hawke had sight without seeing at the moment. His gaze shrouded by the Forces of magic, allowing him to see further combinations and executions of spells and any hostile life that would be nearby. For now, there were none.

“We need to make our escape,” Hawke stated, once he found he was able to stand upright without shaking as though he himself had been struck by the spell.

Isabel and Anders rushed towards the two of them. “Just when things were getting fun. We’ll—”

Isabela’s eyes widened when Hawke pulled his hand away. He and Fenris fell out cold – but were thankfully not dead.

When Fenris finally opened his eyes, the sun was too much for him. It made his stomach lurch and protest. He closed his eyes and rocked uneasily, feeling as though he would up heave whatever remained in his stomach. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing. That would be a painful experience—he knew. He could vaguely hear “Hawke, ple…. Don’t move…. ‘od for you” through the haze of nausea and sleepiness. He blinked a few times before he had to lay his head down. The makeshift pillow was very welcome, though his neck disagreed with the angle.

When he could open his eyes, he saw Hawke sitting on the edge of the cot, bandaged hands gripping the edge tight. He was doubled over, entire body tense. Well, it was good to know that the mage was alive, though Fenris pitied him for having the same affliction. Fenris closed his eyes, brows knit tight as he pressed his lips together. The nausea wave hit him again. It made him feel petulant and sick of himself. He felt like a fussy child.

“Grateful for that nap yet?” Hawke joked, lifting his head enough to look at Fenris.

The elf opened one eye, staring at the brunet’s face. He could see the hair that clung to the mage’s forehead, matted down by sweat.

“I wouldn’t call that rest—merely a physical breakdown.”

“But at least we’re alive.”

“I protest to that,” Fenris grunted, turning his body away and rolling onto his back.

Hawke chuckled a bit. Anders came back with a leather canteen filled with water. The mage thanked him and drank, a little too eagerly. Isabela leaned against the wall with her arms crossed under her breasts. Her gaze drifted from Hawke to Fenris, and it lingered there. The elf didn’t notice. He was trying with far too much effort to keep himself from retching on either himself or on the abomination’s clinic. The first, of course, was most preferred.

“Eat this,” Anders offered.

He set down woven basket with two slices of smoked bread and tiny cuts of (what looked to be extra) dried lutefisk. Fenris made a face that made Anders laugh suddenly. The elf frowned incredulously but sat up slowly, so very slowly. He almost regretted the decision. He thought he would pass out again, but the dramatic assessment was proven false when he felt both his feet touched the ground. Anders once again offered the basket, and Fenris took it with shaky hands. The mage left the canteen next to the sickly elf, who had to lean over to keep himself together. Now he could see why Hawke sat that way as well.

“Cheers,” came the weak but somehow steadily cheerful tone of his companion.

Fenris lifted his head, seeing Hawke slightly lift a piece of bread towards the elf. The warrior picked up a piece of lutefisk with his talons, repeating the motion.

“Cheers,” he grumbled and popped the fish into his mouth.

He frowned, the texture unpleasant against his heavy tongue, but he would stomach it. After all, they made it out of that hell paved tunnel-in-the-wall. At present, there was little else quite worse than that.


End file.
